


A Little Piece of Heaven

by Kat_Rowe



Series: Who Needs Heaven (when we have each other)? [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Complete, Crowley knows what Aziraphale smells like, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I actually had to research bird molting cycles for this, M/M, No Sex, Platonic Kissing, Romantic Friendship, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, almost fluffy, also pre-ship since it's kind of inevitable that these two will end up together, although I've been informed that it is pretty erotic even without the sex, although there may be sequels, but not entirely since our boys do have some serious discussions, humans can't smell sunshine but it does have a smell, if you're looking for smut you may want to turn back now, inevitable but not ineffable since we all understand exactly whats going on between these two, platonic intimacy, the things I do in the name of accuracy, which Crowley assures me is lovely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Rowe/pseuds/Kat_Rowe
Summary: Just two regular blokes, in no way associated with Heaven or Hell, grooming each other's wings. As you do
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Who Needs Heaven (when we have each other)? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657927
Comments: 33
Kudos: 297





	A Little Piece of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of the day, this is the result of my niece sending me an utterly adorable video of her two cockatiels grooming each other.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Veridissima for encouraging me to finally make a foray into Good Omen fics. I've wanted to for years, but never really had the courage. I was so slow in getting this fic done that she probably doesn't even remember that she did encourage me, lol. Also thanks to her for being a sounding board on the topic of angelic and demonic sexually (which this fic almost completely ignores), along with all my other crazy theories.
> 
> Also many thanks to Vicky for encouraging me to write this and also listening to me rambling on about subjects that would have had most random people backing away from me slowly. Vicky was also my lovely beta and caught a few typos that I somehow missed while I was doing my own editing on it. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

The angel wasn’t in the bookstore, so Crowley headed up the stairs to the little flat above the shop. He didn’t knock before entering, mostly because he knew it would annoy Aziraphale. It was always amusing to watch the angel fussing.

Smiling to himself as he entered, he looked around for his friend. _Friend_ : it still felt strange to admit that, even to himself. He was friends with an angel. It was ridiculous, should have been impossible. Of course, given how royally they’d both managed to piss off their respective home offices, there was no point in abiding by their rules any longer. If anything, it was a pleasure to do things he wouldn’t have been allowed to do when he’d still been an official agent of Hell. 

Things like sneaking into an angel’s flat in the night with no more sinister an intention than to tease him for a few minutes before inviting him out for a bite to eat.

He smiled as he heard a soft gasp from the direction of the angel’s bedroom, followed by a slow, delighted moan. It was a bit unexpected, but he wasn’t about to miss out on the opportunity to tease the angel about something like _that_. The sounds the angel was making were charmingly innocent, and his scent was heavy in the air: an intoxicating compound of exotic pastries, used books, and sunlight. Grinning to himself, he crept towards the bedroom, peeking around the doorframe.

His smile faded and his mouth fell open at the sight that met him. The angel wasn’t wanking; he was grooming. Shirtless, his perfectly-formed wings spread wide, Aziraphale stood before a mirror, reaching awkwardly over his shoulder and working his fingers slowly through his mussed feathers. Catching one between his fingertips, he pulled it out, grunted softly, then letting out a contented sigh, mumbling happily to himself.

Crowley froze, fighting the impulse to flee. He’d _seen_ his friend’s wings, of course, but never like this, never so blatantly on display. Aziraphale had always had a kind of natural modesty about his wings, usually keeping them tucked safely out of sight even when there was no danger of them being seen by humans. He wasn’t shy about his wings, but he never exposed them without purpose, and someone so fastidious and proper would certainly never let another see his wings when they were in such a sorry state of molting. This, to an angel, was what complete nudity was to a human: perfectly natural but not necessarily something you wanted just anyone to witness.

Which was a shame. He’d made a hobby over the aeons of collecting artwork depicting angels, and none had ever managed to capture the grace, strength, and Glory present in his friend. 

Breath catching in his throat, he closed his eyes for a moment, deluged with conflicting emotions and desires. It had been so long since he’d seen an angel like this, even longer since he’d touched an angel’s wings. He missed the soft warmth of feathers under his fingers, the intimacy far beyond the physical, the sense of being trusted enough to be allowed to assist in another’s grooming. 

And it _was_ an act of trust, letting another touch something as fragile and sensitive as a wing. Angels routinely groomed one another, but no demon in his right mind would let another near his own wings. 

Would an angel let a demon near his wings? This angel? This demon?

Pushing those questions aside, he opened his eyes again, swallowing hard as he realized that the angel had stopped grooming, was just standing there, trembling. 

“I… didn’t mean to intrude,” he told the angel, grimacing at how halting and unsure his voice sounded. How many thousands of years had it been since he’d spoken without bravado or outright cockiness?

“Oh, there… well, there’s no need to apologize,” Aziraphale assured him, sounding breathless. The back of his neck was pink, and so were his cheeks and chest as he turned to face Crowley. He made no move to cover himself, let alone reach for his shirt, but his wings started to fold back in on themselves.

“No! No, don’t… I’ll leave. I shouldn’t have entered without knocking,” he apologized, wondering when he’d become the kind of person who apologized for making others uncomfortable. Or, for that matter, the kind of person who apologized about anything at all.

“You never knock,” the angel answered with a weak smile, squirming and fidgeting. “I should know by now to lock the door when I’m engaged in--”

“You’ve never done it on your own before, have you?” Crowley interrupted, eager to change the subject. And then instantly kicking himself for not thinking before speaking. Why not just ask the angel about his sexual history? No, actually. Human sex would have been a far less awkward topic than angelic grooming. Sex was just physical. Grooming, especially mutual grooming, was so much more than that. 

“No, I haven’t,” he admitted with a weak smile, toe nudging one of the feathers scattered on the floor around him. “I’m making a terrible mess of it, aren’t I?”

“It’s not easy in a human body. Arms aren’t designed to reach back that far,” he offered, ignoring the ridiculous urge to offer his services. 

“Clearly not.” Clearing his throat, looking almost shy, the angel whispered, “However do you manage?”

“I hire a human prostitute who also happens to be an ornithophiliac.” 

Choking softly, Aziraphale stared at him with wide eyes. “I… wasn’t aware there was such an, er, preference.”

“Humans will fetishize anything,” he answered, shrugging. Then, taking pity on his friend, he added, “To be fair, I’ve never actually met such a human. I groom myself, angel. Have since my Fall..”

“Oh,” he answered, smiling awkwardly. “So… how…”

“It’s not easy. But I’m very flexible. And a long stick works wonders.” 

“A long stick? I did try that, but it didn’t work too well,” the angel admitted, fidgeting and biting his lip. 

_Don’t say it, Crowley. Don’t say it. Do_ **_not_ ** _say it!_

“Of course, no tools can quite match what the right partner can do for someone.” 

_Idiot!_

The angel was staring at him with wide eyes, expression almost fearful. Not that Crowley could blame him. After all, even the most trusting angel alive wouldn’t let a demon touch their wings. It had been stupid of him to offer, even obliquely. Pushing down the irrational sting of rejection he felt at the angels’ reaction, he looked away, mentally formulating a face-saving offer to loan Aziraphale his grooming tools, as if he’d never intended to suggest anything else. 

“Would you… would you mind terribly?” he asked abruptly, breathless and sounding as terrified as he looked. Frightened, yes, but not resistant. Just dreadfully, painfully unsure as he yammered on, “I… I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting myself since… we parted ways with... our respective head offices. My wings were in a bit of a state, even before I started to molt, and... I seem to have damaged a few feathers trying to…”

Was this what pity felt like? This queasy sense of empathy and almost overpowering need to ease the discomfort of another? And why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Not that he needed to, but he had been doing it out of habit for thousands of years. It was unnerving to not feel the habitual rise and fall of his chest.

“It can hurt, if you go too long without a good grooming,” he noted, taking a step closer to the angel. No wonder he’d been making those sounds of pleasure and relief as he plucked out the offending feathers. Months of neglect would have changed the sensation of molting from uncomfortable to agonizing. Poor man. It was all too easy to imagine how he could have injured himself trying to ease that pain. “Come on,” he whispered, nodding towards the bed. “I’ll set you right.”

Trembling again, the angel approached his large bed, perching awkwardly on its edge and staring up at Crowley with eyes that managed to seem vulnerable and trusting at once. “Is this good? Should I lay down?”

_Yes, angel. Lay on the bed while I kneel over you and…_

_Stop it, Crowley, stop it!_

“However you’re most comfortable,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice steady and free of any hint of the direction his thoughts had tried to take. 

There might have been a time when he would have been willing to take advantage of the angel’s trust, but that time was long past and they both knew it. After years of something that wasn’t quite friendship, the angel was so comfortable and sure of his safety that he immediately stretched out on his stomach and extended his wings. The pristinely white quilt looked positively dingey contrasted with those lovely feathers, and Crowley had to fight the urge to simply bury his fingers deep in that fluffy disarray, to savor and share a brand of pleasure that no human would ever know.

But that wasn’t what this was, he told himself firmly. Aziraphale wasn’t some mortal to be seduced and enjoyed, even if he’d still been in the temptation business. Not that he’d ever gone in much for sexual temptations. Too easy and, honestly, too unfair. One shouldn’t be biologically programmed to enjoy a thing, and then punished for doing so. He’d always considered that a dirty trick, and not even the kind he could admire. 

No use raging again heaven, though. That had _never_ been a winning proposition. Sighing, he sat down next to the angel, studying his wings for a moment. They were beautiful and pitiful at once: the feathers bent and sticking out at odd angles instead of laying down smoothly, but so pure white that the color put the term ‘snowy’ to shame. And the wings themselves… well, an angel who had never been a proper warrior had no right to have such muscular, perfectly-formed wings.

“Here, tell me if I hurt you,” he directed, settling on one particullarly chaotic clump of feathers and gently beginning to pluck away the dead ones. 

The angel grunted and squirmed for a moment, then slowly relaxed, letting out a peaceful sigh. “Oh. Oh, that’s lovely, Crowley. It feels so much better.”

“I’ve barely started,” he pointed out, chuckling. “You’re a mess. This is going to take ages to fix.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale answered, voice no longer remotely relaxed. He sounded hurt, stupid creature, as if he honestly thought Crowley was complaining. “Well, if you’d just be so kind as to deal with the most difficult to reach places, I’m sure I can take care of the rest myself.” 

“Don’t be a tit, angel. These wings need a lot of work, from someone who can reach every inch. You really haven’t touched them since we parted ways with the management?” 

He was silent for a long time, except for the occasional soft gasp or sigh as Crowley kept working on him. Finally, voice low and a bit halting, the angel admitted, “I’ve tried a few times, but I just… I couldn’t. All I could think of was how much easier and more pleasant it was with another angel to help and…”

“And how you’ll never have that again,” the demon finished, sighing. He personally didn’t mind having been kicked out of Hell, but knowing he’d never be allowed back into Heaven… well, that was a pain he fully understood. “Well, I may not be an angel, but I’ll be happy to help you with your grooming any time.” 

Better than saying _At least we’ll always have each other_. That would have been ridiculous. Disgustingly sappy, and not a promise he could be sure he was capable of keeping. After all, who knew what the future held?

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, craning his neck and smiling weakly up at Crowley. “It’s very kind of you.”

He no longer let himself become upset at such comments. It didn’t matter any more, what anyone thought of him, even an angel. Well, he amended to himself, it did matter what _one_ angel thought of him. It always had, even if he’d been forced to deny it before they’d become free agents. 

But he couldn’t just let something like that go, either, so he told him, “It’s not kind. I’m just manipulating you into a position where you’ll have no choice but to return the favor at some point.”

“Oh,” the angel answered, turning his head again so he wasn’t looking at Crowley. “You… you wouldn’t have to… I mean…” he faltered.

“It’s all right,” he said, not sure exactly what front he was reassuring his friend on, and honestly not caring. 

After a moment of silence, Aziraphale murmured, “You could just ask, you know. I’d be happy to help you with your wings any time.” 

Crowley swallowed hard at that, torn. On one hand, the idea of such a dear friend gently running his fingers through his inky feathers over and over was as intoxicating as it was soothing. On the other, it had been so many thousands of years since he’d allowed anyone to touch him like that. He remembered the pleasure it had always brought in Heaven, even with angels he hadn’t been particularly fond of. It was like they were wired to savor such contact, a way to reinforce the bonds they already shared.

And now he was ‘reinforcing his bond’ with Aziraphale, who had offered to return the favor. 

The angel sighed happily as Crowley kept working, feathers rippling and muscles contracting under his fingers. He was a mess, and the grooming required much more than simply removing the dead feathers. The remaining ones had to be put back in order and checked for damage as well. Some were bent or twisted and, while most would heal just fine on their own, a few new feathers would have to go. Which was never as easy or relieving as having old feathers plucked during a molting cycle. Still full of veins and nerves, it could feel like having a fingernail ripped off. 

“This may be a bit painful.” he warned. “Some of your blood feathers are beyond even an angel’s healing abilities. They’ll have to be plucked.” 

Aziraphale rolled onto his side at that, staring up at Crowley with wide eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. Some of these… In this body, I wouldn’t want to take a chance. No one’s going to issue us new ones if something happens to these.”

“You’re right, and I wouldn’t like to think about a severe infection in my wings.”

“Neither would I. The universe would be far less amusing without you fussing and fluttering about it.”

He made a soft noise at that, not answering. Biting his lip, Crowley set to work, capturing an injured feather between two fingers and tugging sharply. Aziraphale jerked as the feather came away, pressing his face into the quilt and letting out a pitiful sound that made Crowley’s chest ache. 

“It’s all right,” he soothed, swallowing hard and watching as blood pooled around the wound, staining the surrounding feathers. “Only one more needs to go. Just rest for a few minutes first,” he directed, brushing his finger lightly over the injury and nodding to himself as the blood vanished and the stained feathers regained their pristine state. 

“It hurts less now,” he whispered, not lifting his head. “Thank you. It was almost unbearable before.” 

“I’m glad it’s better now,” Crowley answered, deftly weaving the remaining feathers back into their natural pattern. “What did you do? I’ve only seen wingfeathers damaged that badly after battles.”

“It itched, when I first started to molt. I tried to use a back scratcher I had and… that was a terrible idea.”

“Yes, it _was_. Next time you start to itch, call me, you fool.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help,” the angel admitted, voice small, like a timid child. “It’s such a private thing. And it feels so much better in human form. I suppose I was afraid you’d consider it too much of an intimacy.”

He hesitated for a moment, fingers working absently through his friend’s feathers as he considered his words. Aziraphale had admitted to the intimacy of it, and suggested that he took more than the usual pleasure from being groomed. He remembered the earlier gasps and moans, how easy it had been to assume that the angel was wanking. Too long in human form, too much time taking pleasure in the physical instead of the spiritual. Maybe he _did_ get off on it. Maybe he thought that it would feel even better at Crowley’s hands. It probably would. Crowley could make it feel absolutely _amazing_ for the angel, and he’d enjoy it. Enjoy it far too much, probably...

Swallowing hard, he whispered, “I should pluck this other feather so I can get back to putting the rest of them in order without you needing to worry about any more pain.” 

“Go ahead. I know you’ll be as gentle as you can.”

“Always, angel,” Crowley told him, the word tripping off his tongue before he could censor himself. Before the angel could make too much of his words, he grabbed the feather and pulled hard. It came away more easily than the last, and Aziraphale barely made a sound. “There we go. No more pain,” he promised, gently smoothing down the surrounding feathers, then lightly stroking his fingers over them. He’d forgotten how soft feathers could feel.

“That feels so much better. I should never have allowed myself to end up in such a state,” he murmured. “No more new feathers are damaged, are they?”

“No. No, just a few old ones. The rest of this won’t hurt a bit, Angel,” he promised, continuing to work.

Aziraphale relaxed into the mattress with a nod, silent except for the occasional soft moan or wordless mumble of encouragement. His enjoyment was obvious, and gratifying. But his _trust_ was terrifying. No one, angel or otherwise, should be letting a demon put him in a position like this. Aziraphale was unspeakably vulnerable; it would be the work of seconds to cripple his wings permanently. Or to cause a lethal degree of damage to them. And, now that he was a free agent, death would be far more than an inconvenience. 

Foolish angel. He always had been. Naive, too. Crowley had known that about him since their first meeting, when an angel had seen a demon leaving the Garden and engaged in friendly chit-chat instead of attempting to smite him. And, in a not very demonic sentiment, it left the demon wanting to protect instead of exploit him. He’d never confessed that to himself before, and the idea would take some getting used to. Sighing, he continued plucking and smoothing the feathers.

“Is something wrong, Crowley?” the angel asked gently. 

“No. Why would anything be wrong?” 

“You sighed. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Just sorry about what we’ve lost, especially you. I just lost a job; you’ve been denied Heaven.”

“I never had much in common with other angels anyway. Neither of us did,” Aziraphale noted after a moment. “You were cast out, too, and you never let it get you down.”

He snorted softy at that, shaking his head and continuing to preen his friend’s soft, warm feathers. They felt wonderful under and around his fingers, soothing. Feeling peaceful in a way he hadn’t in thousands of years, he found himself able to talk about it, for the first time, without much pain at all.

“It never depressed me because I was too busy being angry, angel. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t Fall because I did anything wrong. It wasn’t my fault! God made a mistake.” 

“Maybe she didn’t,” he ventured slowly, pushing himself up on his elbows and glancing at Crowley over his shoulder. 

**_“What?”_ ** he demanded, incredulous. After everything, how could Aziraphale still believe in the infallibility of Heaven? Believe that Crowley was irredeemably evil? 

“Maybe…” He hesitated, shifting into a sitting position and drawing his knees up, hugging them against his chest, Tucking his wings back neatly, but making no move to conceal them this time, he slowly said, “Maybe you _had_ to Fall, for things to work out like they did. If any other demon had delivered Adam to that hospital… It had to be someone who wasn’t eager for it to happen, someone who wasn’t paying attention, and who didn’t stay to make sure things went to plan. It _had_ to be you.”

“You’re saying I was cast out of Heaven so I’d fuck one thing up, _thousands_ of years later, for the greater good?” he demanded, incredulous but unable to bring himself to entirely dismiss this bizarre version of events.

“You were never like the others. Oh, Crowley, I always knew you weren’t like the others. Not like the other angels and _definitely_ not like the other demons. Otherwise, I couldn’t have come to… to care about you the way I did.”

Had he been about to say something else? Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale, watching the feathers on his wings rippling faintly. It was mad, both the theory about his Fall and the idea that the angel might feel a little more than simple friendship for him.

Shifting uncomfortably, the blushing angel cleared his throat, fidgeting and staring down at his knees. “I just mean… well, you were never like the others.”

“So you’ve said,” he answered dryly before falling silent and waiting for the other man to finish explaining.

“Well… I mean… when you think about it, the Great Plan was always…”

“Ineffable?” the demon scoffed.

“Yes, but also... always meant to work out the way it did. We were all meant to end up where we are now. You always had a role to play. We just never knew what it was before. I believe that you were only meant to be a demon for a little while, just long enough to do Heaven’s work.” 

He wanted to laugh at the idea, but it was hard to summon up any mirth or scorn in the face of Aziraphale’s honesty and conviction. He wanted to tell the angel that God didn’t play games like that, but they both knew better. The Almighty liked Her games far too much, as far as Crowley could tell, and definitely had no problem manipulating hapless and helpless pawns to further Her obscure goals. Maybe, having spent more time experiencing Her Grace, the angel knew something that he didn’t. If the other angels hadn’t realized it, well, that was because, like his own superiors, they’d been nothing but self-important bureaucrats convinced that the universe couldn’t carry on without their own personal attention and routine intervention.

“You think God cast me out deliberately, not because She was angry with me, but so I’d flub a simple delivery job?”

“Ineffable,” he repeated with a weak smile. “Oh, Crowley, I wish you could see what I see. I mean… in yourself.” 

“What could you possibly see in me that I don’t see in myself?”

“Goodness. Kindness,” he answered, giving a little shrug and smiling weakly. “I’ve always noticed that about you, even if you’ve never really liked to hear me say it.”

He was looking vulnerable again, more than a little frightened, but still completely willing to lay his soul bare for Crowley. It was scary, seeing him like this, but something else, too. Had he always looked so young? So unsure? So _beautiful_?

But, of course he was beautiful! He was an angel. If Crowley had never noticed it before, that was his own demonic lack of insight, or perhaps the angel’s own caution and restraint around him. Now, though…

“What if you’re right?” he whispered. “It doesn’t change anything. We’ve both lost everything.”

“No we haven’t,” Aziraphale protested, shaking his head. “We have… the whole world! My bookstore and your Bentley and…” He trailed off, biting his lip and staring at the bedroom ceiling for a long moment before whispering, “We have each other, don’t we?”

Part of him, the part used to false bravado and extreme caution, wanted to either deny the angel’s words or just get up and leave. But how could he? What kind of man would he be if he could rebuff the innocence and trust on display, the obvious affection? He’d have to truly be just another demon to throw away what was being offered. And, even though he wasn’t entirely sure exactly what was on offer, or how much, he ached to accept it.

“We have each other,” he echoed quietly, watching the angel’s face. 

The poor man blushed, and slowly met Crowley’s eyes with his own, smiling shyly. “I’m… I’m glad you agree,” he whispered. “I… I’m very glad.” 

“So am I. Can’t honestly imagine where I’d be right now without you.” The admission left him shocked at his own openness, but he didn’t bother trying to take it back or minimize it in any way. It was true and, at the moment, being truthful with his oldest friend seemed more important than anything else in the universe.

They simply stared at each other in silence for a long time, and Crowley felt oddly warm. Not embarrassed, just… overheated and acutely, _physically_ aware of his surroundings: the ticking of the clock; the rush of warm air from the heating vents; the softness of the comforter under his hands; the rush of blood in his ears; that familiar, angelic scent that he’d always found so comforting…

“Thank you,” the angel said finally, extending his wings, giving them a shake, and then tucking them against his back again. “I feel much better.”

“You look better, too,” Crowley told him, clearing his throat and tearing his gaze away as the moment passed. “I’ll let you get back to your evening, then.”

“No,” the angel answered, reaching out and resting a hand on his shoulder as he started to rise, arresting him. At Crowley’s startled look, he sputtered, “I… I haven’t returned the favor yet.”

“You don’t have to,” he pointed out, since the poor man looked so nervous and embarrassed as he made the offer. As wonderful as it would feel to have those gentle fingers working through his feathers, he didn’t want it to happen just because the angel felt an obligation. 

“I know I don’t have to,” Aziraphale answered simply, shrugging. “But I _want_ to. You’ve been such a good friend to me, and I want to do this for you. I should have offered ages ago. I’m sorry I didn’t. I suppose I was a bit frightened.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know,” he answered with an uneasy smile.

But he did, Crowley was sure. He recognized that nervous-yet-eager expression; he’d seen it plenty of times, on the face of mortals confronted with a temptation that they’d been wanting to succumb to since long before any demons appeared to help them along.

Was that what this was for the angel? What _he_ was? Just another temptation? He’d already cost the angel Heaven. Was it really fair to let himself drag his friend down even further? 

“Please,” the angel whispered as the silence started to stretch uncomfortably. “I know how long it’s been. Let me do this for you.” Leaning forward slightly, he took the demon’s hands in both of his own, confessing, “I’ve wanted to be able to offer you this for so long now, my dear Crowley.”

Swallowing hard, he whispered, “Have you?”

“Of course I have,” Aziraphale whispered, twining his fingers through Crowley’s and smiling sadly at him. “You’ve always been so much better… so much _more_ than anyone else realized. It’s always been difficult, the distance between us. It’s unfair. I’ve always felt that. I was talking to William about it one evening and--”

“Stole a line from you, didn’t he?” Crowley interrupted, forcing himself to smirk rather than give in to the gravity of the moment. 

Smiling weakly, the angel, bit his lips, staring down at their linked hands for a moment before whispering, “ _The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings._ ” 

Something in the pit of Crowley’s stomach tightened and twisted at those words, and it was a struggle not to pull his hands free. How long _had_ the angel been struggling with all this? Although, to be fair, Aziraphale hadn’t been the only one trying to cope with such powerfully mixed emotions over the millenia. Sober, he’d always been able to laugh off the powerful pull he felt towards the angel. Except that they were both sober now, and it was absolutely impossible to ignore...

Something rose in the former demon, that streak of defiance that had been getting him into trouble since the beginning of time.

“We aren’t underlings any more,” he pointed out, squeezing his friend’s hands. “We don’t answer to _anyone._ Not Heaven, not Hell, not the Almighty Herself.” 

There was something so freeing in the admission, in finally stating aloud a fact that they’d been skirting around now for months. He laughed, couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to, and it came with a feeling akin to physical release. Even the angel, after an initial nervous look, was smiling, and chuckling quietly as he watched Crowley with an almost unbearably fond expression. He really needed to stop looking at him like that. The soft curve of those plump lips made him look far too kissable. 

He couldn’t resist it and he didn’t want to. Leaning in, he planted a gentle kiss to the corner of his friend’s mouth, the only chaste kiss he could recall having shared with anyone in the entire span of his existence. Aziraphale gasped and tightened his hold on Crowley’s hands, turning into the kiss with a little sigh. 

It was beautiful, tender and honest, and more intimate than anything Crowley had ever experienced. He was worried, for just a moment, that his own body’s response might ruin the whole thing, but all he felt as their lips moved lightly against each other was peace, and a warmth so damned pure and bright that it hurt. It burned, almost unbearably for a moment, then faded back to a gentle glow that settled itself comfortably in the pit of his stomach and smoldered pleasantly. 

“Crowley,” the angel whispered, drawing away and watching him through half-lidded eyes, his smile peaceful and full of affection. 

“Aziraphale,” he answered, not sure what else to say or how to express his gratitude for this new feeling of connection. 

“Shall I groom you now?” the angel offered, smiling fondly and, when Crowley didn’t answer, reaching for the top button of his shirt.

To an outsider, the whole thing would have looked like seduction, the tender touches and loving words, the slow kiss, the careful removal of clothes accompanied by reassuring whispers. In a haze of trust and contentment, he found himself lying face-down on his friend’s bed, the fabric of the quilt soft and cool against his overheated skin as he spread his wings for Aziraphale’s inspection. The bedding smelled like his friend, soothing him into a comfortable daze that reminded him of mild intoxication.

The angel didn’t touch him for several moments, then he chuckled, patting the crest of one wing and teasing, “How much effort does it take to make it look as if you _don’t_ spend hours on them every day?”

“Shut up and do your job,” he growled, smiling into the quilt and giving his wings an insistent rustle. 

The angel chuckled again, and then Crowley was closer to Heaven than he had been since some time _before_ his Fall. Aziraphale’s skin had always been considerably cooler than his own, but the fingers working their way through his feathers left warm sparks in their wake, and those sparks sent tingles jolting from his wings to the tip of every extremity. 

No wonder the angel had sounded like he was getting off on the experience. The human body simply hadn’t been built to process this degree of sensation. Both the involvement of completely alien nerve-endings and the sheer _intensity_ of the experience were not things a corporeal shell knew how to handle. It could only express itself in little spasms of delight that were easy to mistake for something else entirely. 

He wasn’t sexually aroused, not precisely, but the same theoretical observer who might have viewed the whole situation as seduction would have assumed he was, and with good reason. It was impossible not to roll his shoulders, angling his wings towards his friend’s fingers and bringing the more sensitive areas under Aziraphale’s tender care. It was impossible not to occasionally give little jumps when the angel’s fingers began to work on such an area. He was unable to prevent himself from trembling, or to prevent the surface muscles of his wings from rippling at every touch. And he couldn’t have kept quiet if he’d tried.

He’d always enjoyed grooming himself, on the same level he enjoyed music, good food, a night of dancing, a hot shower, or the scent of old books. Innocent pleasures. Some things always felt good, and there was no harm in embracing that fact. Taking care of his wings had always been a source of physical, if only minor, pleasure.

He hadn’t counted on the difference that another person could make to the experience. 

He tried to remember, had it been like this in Heaven? But no. Heavenly experience was devoid of physical sensation and, while he’d understood from experience that emotions could amplify sensation to a degree, he hadn’t been remotely prepared for the way the two could feed into each other. Or, perhaps more likely, he was just unused to feeling such powerful and conflicting emotions. After all, most of his existence had been a study in pretending that things weren’t painful as they really were.

There was nothing painful in this, though, despite the fact that he found himself once more unable to breathe. Overwhelming and dizzying, but not at all unpleasant. He felt so content, so loved, so dangerously exposed. And so very, very safe in his friend’s care.

At first, the angel just arranged and smoothed his feathers, weaving them back into alignment as necessary. But, as Crowley started to think he might actually fall asleep under those near-caresses, his body humming with pleasure, the angel’s discerning fingers managed to find an area of feathers at the end of their life-cycle. 

“Do these itch yet?” he asked, smoothing them with his fingers over and over. “I can remove them if you’d like. You’d have a bit of a bald patch, but your next molt would be a bit more comfortable.” 

Crowley hadn’t been aware of the incipient itch until then, but he squirmed as it became impossible to ignore now that it had been pointed out. “Pluck them all,” he directed, flexing and angling his wing so his friend could reach the area more easily. “You’re the only one who ever sees them anyway.” 

“They’ll grow back before long anyway,” the angel soothed, angling each feather in the proper direction and plucking them away to make way for the new growth. 

Crowley grunted, gritting his teeth against what was coming. But it didn’t hurt, not remotely. It was actually rather pleasant, a genuine relief. Fleetingly, he thought that such skill must have made Aziraphale much sought-out as a grooming partner, and he was startled to feel a spark of jealousy at the idea that other angels had experienced those wonderful hands in such an intimate and loving context. The spark didn’t ignite, though. In rejecting corporeal existence, no angel had ever experienced what mutual grooming could really be like. Stupid bloody sots. Their own Damned fault, the self-righteous prats. Their own Divine fault, too.

He closed his eyes as the angel continued to work, warm and content in a way he hadn’t been for...ever.

“There,” the angel whispered finally, grasping Crowley’s wings and tucking them gently into position against his back. “That’s so much better, isn’t it?” he asked, tenderly stroking Crowley’s feathers.

“Stop that. You’ll make me fall asleep,” he protested, trying to glare up at the angel. Had his touch and scent always been so soothing?

“Would that be so horrible?” Aziraphale countered, gifting him with a loving smile. 

He swallowed hard, not sure how to respond either to the question or to that look. Part of him wanted to look away. The rest of him never wanted to stop sharing in this new unspoken connection they seemed to have forged. 

“This… isn’t my flat,” he pointed out finally, clearing his throat and letting his tongue dart out to wet his lips. “I can’t sleep here.”

“Of course you can,” Aziraphale chuckled, unfolding a blanket that had appeared out of nowhere and spreading it over Crowley’s prone form. “You’re always welcome here.” 

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Gratitude seemed like the appropriate emotion, but it was one the former demon had little practice expressing. Instead he just stared up at his angel and smiled weakly.

Aziraphale smiled in response, then gently touched Crowley’s cheek. “You have beautiful eyes,” he whispered, blushing again. Looking away quickly, he cleared his throat and directed, “Get some rest.”

“Maybe just a few minutes,” he yawned, resettling his wings and smiling up at his best and oldest friend. “I don’t sleep often,” he added, closing his eyes. “But a few minutes of shut-eye couldn’t hurt.”

“Real sleep is refreshing sometimes. You should try it tonight. You look relaxed enough.” 

He shook his head, not opening his eyes. Sleep could be, quite literally, a nightmare, especially lately. He understood the appeal, sometimes even enjoyed a few hours of sleep if he was intoxicated enough. But, right now, the idea of inviting in any dreams was the last thing he wanted to contemplate. He felt too good to ruin the moment like that. 

“Oh,” the angel ‘answered’ quietly, despite the fact that Crowley hadn’t actually spoken. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.

“Not your fault,” Crowley assured him, refusing to let the peaceful moment pass. Eyes still shut, he assured Aziraphale, “This is lovely.” 

“I’ll turn the lights off. Would you like some music?” 

“You _are_ trying to put me to sleep.”

“Would it be so wrong if I was?” his friend countered, a smile in his voice as he began gently stroking Crowley’s feathers again. “I’d be here to watch over you.”

“A fallen angel with his own personal guardian angel? That’s new,” he scoffed, opening one eye and smiling warmly up at his friend.

“A lot of new things have been happening lately,” he noted, beaming back down at him and bringing his free hand to smooth back Crowley’s hair. “Now _rest_. You can’t fool me. I know you’ve been exhausted for decades now.” 

Once, and not too long ago, Crowley would have argued the point. But tonight, safe and warm and so very comfortable in Aziraphale’s bed, surrounded by his warmth and scent, it seemed like far too much trouble. Savoring the sensation of his friend’s fingers playing lightly against his hair and feathers, he closed his eyes and drank in that glorious scent, lettingit lull him. It _had_ been too long since he’d truly rested, if only because it had been so long since he’d felt truly safe. 

But, watched over by his faithful friend, there was no need to be wary or guarded. Mumbling a thanks, he lifted a hand, squeezing the angel’s forearm as he closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he would actually be able to sleep or not, but he found himself hoping that this wouldn’t be the last time Aziraphale stayed with him while he tried. 

**END**


End file.
